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23 thoughts on “LAST CALL…”

There is no need, for I or hand, to draw a picture in the space provided, the watchman declares. But he’ll do as told, because that’s what he does.

Last call, oh I doubt it. As she has dipped her brush into the colours of dawn. And her quill drips of lover’s blood, but not lovers in that way declared dear departed Leonard. On the page, on the dance floor canvas one finds her aubade. O’ mercy. For love of beauty, the stroke of passion. For flight of fancy and the colour of love. The pigment sizzles. She’s never alone when she paints.

So I now understand, she breathed. You see a friend, Leonard, just died. I was not thinking of your Mr. Cohen, but rather my own Leonard. Thank you for explaining. I am no longer mind-bent
( well up to a point) over how….

The reffectiveness of life’s light is constant amber glowing in memories then it turns to the ash of our subconscious . And that kind of stuff surfaces in mysterious ways in art. That is why I keep my metaphors in front of me so as to keep an eye on them….last call .

“I think that one wants from a painting a sense of life. The final suggestion, the final statement, has to be not a deliberate statement but a helpless statement. It has to be what you can’t avoid saying.” Jasper Johns Yes…

His quote makes me think, perhaps that’s why so many art schools, even famous ones, fail at teaching students how to be creative. Instead their focus is is on making artist , which I think is ass backwards.

Oh this is beautiful. I love the vibrancy of the painting. Your poetry made me think of how spectacular that blossom is, but so ephemeral, as too soon it will tumble to the ground and be absorbed into the earth for round two.